Under The Fable, Issue 10

under the fable

Issue 10, October 2017

Poetry, Proses and Play

What more could someone want on Halloween...

Prose

Content Page

4..6.

7..13.

14..17.

18..20.

Poetry 21.

22.

24.

25.

26..27.

28.

29.

30.

32.

33.

Angel Ten (Patrick Hutchinson) Enter Theophilus (Andrian Joseph) The Meeting (John Pett) 50 Shades of Green (Alec Silifant)

Lullabies at Dawn (Bethany McTrustery) Ragnarok (Chris Harris) I saw (Angus Shoor Caan) Untitled (Tanvir Ratul) In The Living Room 2016 (J. O. Hanlon) Saturday Britain (Jem Henderson) Jigsaw (Layla Josie) Can You Just? (Sally Latimer Boyce) Monsoon Skies (Amelia Knaggs) Leaving (John Grey)

Play 34..43 Lazerbeam (Hayden Robinson)

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Hey Readers,

Issue 10 is once again a little different.

Look forward to the new year and what has to offer, We are currently looking for poetry events to be held over the country and would like to hear from our readers so please drop us a line.

The editors are still busy, one was covered in highlighter ink the other day and last month, another was covered with post it notes... now I wasnt sure if they were practicing for Halloween but this is just some of the randomness that happens in these pages.

Once again hoping you enjoy this issue and submit work yourself if you havent already.

As always, keep well as I look forward to speaking in three months,

g e M

Editor In Chief Under The Fable

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Note from the Editor

So yeah, its that time again but this time with a blanket, an open fire and hot chocolate.

Patrick Hutchinson

Angels Ten. I wiz drivin throwe Banff ae day and saa a sign sayin there wiz a carboot at the Tesco car park. I drew inaboot an there wiz an affa boorach o cars sellin aa the odds ‘n’ eyns fowk wanted rid o. I’d a raik aboot lookin at the books but they were maistly Mills & Boons or that kind o thing, nae interest tae me ava. I cam upon this boot an the aaler wifie hid books mair tae my likin so I’d a gweed raik among them. I got a twa’r three that interested ma.

The wifie said “It looks like ye’ll be a meenitie or twa. Wid you look aifter the stall for me?” She added “I’m needin tae pooder my nose!”

I wiz gey surprised at this because she didna ken me fae Adam an tae leave me in charge o her stall wi some gey expensive lookin ornaments put me aff my styter.

She must’ve seen ma predicament and said “I winna be lang and ye’ve got an honest face.”

I tellt her I didna mind lookin aifter it for her but speired fit wid happen if onybody wanted tae buy something? She laached an replied “Michty min are ye blin? The prices are on aathing.”

She pointed tae the ice cream tub “There’s change in there!” An wi that she wiz aff towards the shop. I got a fyowe mair books and saw some mair aneth the table so I’d a raik there ana. I opened ae box an inside wiz a sheep’s wool jaicket o the kine ye see in aal war films.

“Michty this wid dee ma fine for vrochtin in the wids!” I tried it on and it fittit like a glove.

“It suits ye!” This wiz the wifie back.

I tellt her the jaicket wid be good for the winter. I did a twirl like a gype an she teen a richt laach tae hersel. I speired at her foo muckle she’d nott for it?

“Och it’s jist an aal thing and it wiz good o ye lookin aifter my stall so wid a fiver be ower muckle?”

I handit the siller ower richt awa plus one fifty for aa the books.

As I left I noticed this aal mannie sittin in the front passenger seat o her car. He wiz glowerin at ma wi an ill-naitert face. A wee bittie put oot at this an mair than puzzled as tae fit wye she got me tae look aifter her stall fin the aal man wiz sittin there, I jist shrugged my shooders and headed back tae my Landie. I threw the jaicket an the books ontae the seat and left tae gyang hame tae Macduff.

I showed the jaicket tae my mither and she said it wiz fae the war and she mined the pilots weerin them. There wiz a tear on the richt side and it hid been sortit but my mither didna like the dark broon stain on the inside. She said it lookit like bleed that hid been washed aff at some point and it wiz in line wi the repaired tear. She tried sair tae get the stain oot but nithing she could dee wid get rid o it.

But onywye it wiz aaricht stain or no and I wore it in the wids and richt fine it wiz.

Aboot the hinmaist week o October I wiz takkin doon a puckle firs fae the side o the main road that were gettin in the wye o high sided larries. I’d feenished vrocht for the day and put my saw an chines in the back o the Landie. Fin I wint intae the cab, the Landrover started tae rock back an forrit as if bein buffeted by a strong wind.

“Strange!” I stepped oot o the cab an there wiz hardly a braith o ween. Ower the next couple o wiks the same thing happened a fyowe mair times. I jist didna ken fit wiz causin it but I jist caa’d awa an ignored it. Ae nicht though comin hame late things got a lot worse.

I wiz comin doon the Slacks at Keilhill fin the buffetin started eence mair but this

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5

Patrick Hutchinson

time I thocht somebody hid thrown a haanfae o chuckies at my motor because I heard the pitter patter o them as they hut the side o the Landie. I stoppit and reversed back tae far I thocht the steens hid been thrown fae but nae a sign o onybody could I see for it wiz comin doon dark.

I wiz fairly gettin puzzled aboot fit wiz gyan on even tae the extent o checkin oot the suspension o my Landie.

For a fyle aifter that nithing happened an I thocht the grease I’d pitten in the suspension hid fixed the problem. Aye but it wisna tae laist because ae nicht as weel as the usual buffetin an chuckies hittin the side o my Landie I saw flashes like lichtnin.

The buffetin got as bad it wiz like tae pit ma aff the road. The thumpin an bangin at the side o my Landie wiz unreal an fin I got hame I checked oot the bodywork tae see if there wiz ony damage. But apairt fae the normal bashes an dints ye’d expect fae a vehicle that spent maist o its life in the wids there wisna a mark.

Aboot a wik later I’d been takkin a puckle trees doon up the Cullen wye for the Hydro. Big bonny beech trees they were but as they were ower near the power lines they hid tae come doon. I vrocht late sneddin the branches an cuttin them intae cloggies (that wiz een o ma perks I got aa the limbs tae masel). I planned tae tak the bogie up wi ma neist day an load up. My mither wid be fair kinichtit wi the beech cloggies for they burned like a cannel.

On the wye hame tae Macduff the bangin an flashin startit again at this side o Portsoy but even mair coorse than afore. I realised by noo that something far fae richt wis happenin. I didna ken if I should stop the Landie an rin awa or jist sink the tackit an hope it wid stop.

In the event the decision wiz teen oot o ma hands fin a almichty bang an something came throwe the driver’s door an punched ma fair in the richt side knockin ivvery inch o braith fae ma. There wiz mair flashes and things hittin the Landie but I’d better things tae worry aboot as a tearin pain tore at my intimmers.

Fin I put doon ma hand I could feel the bleed pumpin ower it.

“Some bastard his shot ma for Christ’s sake!” By this time I could feel my heed begin tae sweem and my een got affa blurry but even throwe the haze I kent nae tae stop because faivver hid shot ma micht come an finish the job. I vaguely mind keepin tae the richt side o the road then the next thing I kent I’m in a hospital bed wi tubes stickin oot o ma aa ower the place.

A doctor came inaboot an speired foo I wiz feelin but my reply made nae sense tae me so I dinna ken fit it sounded like tae him. He jist smiled and left.

Ower the next couple o days I managed tae get up and aboot but ma side wiz affa sair. The police came tae tak a statement. They’d found my Landie crashed intae the gates o the Roads Department’s yard at Boyndie and mysel tryin tae climm the high gates for some reason. So I tellt them fit hid happened and that some bugger hid shot ma.

I couldna explain why I’d been tryin tae climm the gate because I mined nithing aboot that. This startit a big search o the area but nithin wiz found. The Landie hid mair holes in it than a sieve and they said I wiz lucky tae be alive. The police that found me hid pushed dressings they cairriet in their first aid kit intae the hole in my side then rushed me tae Chalmers Hospital.

The doctor that saved my life cam tae see me. His faither wiz a doctor at Banff but on the nicht I wiz brocht in he wiz fullin in for his faither. He’d jist cam hame fae a tour o duty in Afghanistan and spottit immediately that I’d shrapnel wounds and hid operated tae stop the bleedin. Athoot that I’d be in a box. Of coorse I thankit him for my life and we got tae newsin aboot fit hid happened. I tellt him aa the

Patrick Hutchinson

things I couldna tell the police (aboot the strange flashes and bangs ower the past couple months). I thocht he’d laach at ma but he didna. Instead he handit me a copy o that week’s Banffie sayin “Read this!”

The Banffie hid run the story aboot the mystery surrounding the shooting on the road atween Portsoy an Banff and aboot me,how ill I wiz blah blah but it wiz the eyn o the article that made the hairs on the back o my neck staan up. The Landrover had been found crashed into the gateway of the Roads Department’s yard at Boyndie which had once been the hospital for the old wartime aerodrome nearby. A lot o pennies startit tae faa intae place at this revelation but I kept it tae masel. Eventually I made a full recovery fae my wounds.

The neist year I wint back tae the carboot that wiz held the same time each year tae see if I could find the wifie that hid sellt ma the jaicket. By good luck she wiz there wi her stall and I wint inaboot an got newsin tae her. I speired her aboot the jaicket so she tellt ma it wiz her faither’s. He’d flown Mosquitoes fae Boyndie during the war deein sweeps across the North sea tae attack German convoys aff the coast o occupied Norway.

She tellt ma on one attack they’d came under heavy fire fae a German flack ship and hid been badly damaged. His navigator hid been killed and her faither badly wounded but somehow he’d managed tae get back and hid made a crash landing at Boyndie.

Ma hairt by this time wiz gyan like a trip haimmer. I could hardly spik but I managed tae compose masel lang eneuch tae speir “Far aboot wiz yer faither woundit?”

She pointed tae her richt side and said a lump o shrapnel fae the flack hid made a hole the size o her fist intae his side.

So I tellt her aathing aboot fit hid happened tae me even tae showin her the fist sized scar in my side. But fin I tellt her aboot the aal mannie sittin in her passenger seat glowerin at ma fin I left wi the jaicket she got gey upset. She teen a photo fae her handbag an showed it tae ma sayin this wiz teen a couple years afore he died.

“Aye that’s the man richt eneuch! He seemed affa angry an glowered at ma!”

The woman hid tae sit doon on the tailgate o her car an I thocht she’d pass oot aathegither. She then tellt ma that her faither hid ayewis said that fin he died he wintit his Irvine fleein jaicket draped ower his coffin. In the event she’d forgotten aa aboot his wish and by the time she remembered it wiz ower late. She’d kept his jaicket for years but hid thocht that somebody could get the gweed o it so last year hid decided tae sell it at the carboot.

Onywye atween us we decided tae gie her father his wish and approached the cooncil. Of course we’d tae tell them the reason as tae fit wye we nott the grave opened an tae oor surprise they listened wi a sympathetic ear. Permission wiz grantit and on the appointed day the grun opened at Myrus Cemetery Macduff.

Baith o us stood there as the lads cleared the earth awa and checked the coffin wiz still in ae bit. By gweed luck aathing wiz fine and we went forrit tae pit the jaicket doon the hole. The woman turned tae me sayin “Since you suffered maist because o that jaicket wid you like tae pit it in place?”

Takin it fae her I wint doon intae the grave and placed it on the coffin and tae this day I’m sure I heard radio static and voices fae the past chatterin awa and one voice as clear as a bell say “This is red leader at angels ten!”

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Enter Theophilus; To Him, Evangelos

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Andrian Joseph

Whence the wind blew, the sun peeked from behind blackened clouds. Rays of brilliance showcased their dominance of the sky. Leaves of red, green, and brown blew in every direction; whencesoever they came, not one person knew. These things were witnessed by Theophilus, the disfigured man, from his window on the loft of Spiro’s residence. Spiro was his keeper -- a father figure, if you will. In the square, Theophilus lived; not like ordinary men, but like a hermit. He lived there in the attic near a window. The window was a painting of sorts, for he looked and looked, but never did he leave his solitary place. The window showed to him the world in which many people so different, but similar to him, lived. Women walked, like strange blossoming flowers, throughout the square. Men, whom he saw as merely protectors of carnal things, walked amongst the women. Thereunto that place he longed to be, but he was unlike the men -- the protectors of carnal things.

Spiro walked into the room. “Theophilus, have you eaten today? I sent a young maid unto you; she had a plate of many fine cheeses and some bread. Did you take it?” Spiro said unto Theophilus, whom the onlooking people called, ‘the gorgon’.

“Indeed, I have eaten. It was a very fine meal, father,” said Theophilus unto Spiro He called him father in spite of Spiro’s paternal ways.

“Very good to know. But, remember what I said; do not keep the window open, for the people can be very cruel. They’ll scorn you as they have before.”

“It was just for a brief moment, father. I took a rest from playing the piano. I wanted to eat while looking at the beauty below.”

“That is fair, but the moment you see them beckoning, close the window.”

Theophilus smiled. His disfigured face was a basis for ridicule; his face, rocky like the surface of a mountain, scared children, but brought about laughter for the men and women. “I will close the window at the first sight of them,” then said Theophilus unto Spiro. He then placed a book on the foot of Theophilus’ bed and exited the room.

Thereafter, Theophilus took the book and examined it. The book, not titled, displayed the image of a small, lavender bird on the front cover. The bird reminded Theophilus of Theodora, the hummingbird which gifted him many melodies and musical ideas. When he opened the book, there read a note; the note read, “Give them no reason to laugh at you. Death follows closely behind you, Theophilus. The townsfolk know this, so they pity you and your insanity. Is it insanity? You speak of this bird of yours, but not one person has seen her. Please, for me, gently take heed and refrain from opening your window S. Floros.”

The letter was written by Spiro, as was evident by, ‘S. Floros.” To know his keeper was skeptical of his sanity irked Theophilus. After he read the small letter, he closed the book and set it back down on the foot of his bed. Thereafter, the hummingbird, Theodora came and perched herself on his windowsill. Her beauty was unmatched; lavender, teal, maroon, and black were the colors that composed her image.

“They think of me as some delirious fool. Show yourself to them. Show yourself to them so they’ll abandon their idea of me being foolish,” said Theophilus unto

Andrian Joseph

Theodora, the hummingbird.

The bird replied with a melodious series of chirps. Other men and women would be perplexed by this, but Theophilus knew her ways of speaking. He approached her and set before her, a small, stale triangle of cheese. He then retreated to his piano; the piano was not correctly tuned and was in poor condition. But, when Theodora gifted him her musical ideas, he played them spectacularly; no one knew the piano was not tuned. So, again, he sat at the piano and listened to her sing melodies and then played the songs. Again, like times before, his playing brought about a great deal of controversy. Many of the listening townsfolk outside the window thought he had hired a band to perform within the loft. Others thought that he possessed a wicked spirit; a mad spirit with musical capabilities. As he played, hecklers gathered and began their hurl of insults.

“Look, this foolish demon is trying to lure our wives to his residence so he can make them his wives!” a man, Andreas, shouted. He and his friends began to cast pebbles at the window. When this happened, Theodora flew inside the room and perched herself on the bed of Theophilus.

Andreas’ friend, Evangelos, then looked on and pointed, saying, “Ha! There is a bird there with him! What type of buffoon is Spiro guarding?”

Another man with Evangelos and Andreas then turned to the crowd and said unto them, “He is dying, but he somehow has the capability to perform beautiful music?

This is the work of some demonic force. Do not fall in love with the sounds of his piano!”

But, Theophilus ignored the gossip of those below and continued to play the piano.

Theodora was like a sheet of music; he heard her notes and played them, bringing them to life. Many of the women and men below were astonished; they never before heard such excellence. But, the moon unveiled herself from the clouds not long after, and the crowd scattered. Theodora, the hummingbird, escaped through the window, flying into the mystical skies.

When Theophilus awoke the next morning, the sun was already casting it’s golden light through his lavender drapes. Outside the room, he heard Spiro’s voice.

Thereupon, he hurried to the door and placed his ear to it. Along with the voice of Spiro were the voices of others. He heard the voice of a woman, an elderly man, and a young man.

“Let him enjoy his last days,” Spiro said unto the group of people. His voice was stern and not unlike the voice of a preacher.

“But, this man contains a demonic force within him. If you continue to harbor this man, his wickedness will spread like a fire,” said the woman.

Spiro sighed and spoke, saying, “Leave him be. He is a pianist. Can you not accept his talent? Haven’t you ever heard a skilled musician before?”

“Look at his face. He is no musician. He is a gorgon!” the young man said. His voice was full of both envy and rage.

“How do you suggest we solve this? Because you have heard the music -- that is proof that he is really the one playing it.”

“We haven’t seen him playing the piano. Indeed, we have heard the music, but how do we know it is him and not some force doing it for him?” the old man then said.

“Have him play in the square. Everyone can be witness to it,” said the young man.

“He is not obligated to do anything he doesn’t want. I will ask him, but if he refuses, leave him be.”

Then, the woman spoke unto Spiro, saying, “He must do it. If he does not perform in

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the square, he will continue to be a nuisance. He is a problem and I am certain that many would agree with me.”

“Ah, so a man who keeps to himself is a problem? What wrongdoings can you attribute to his name? If the people do not want to hear his playing, they can cover their ears when they walk past his window.”

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Andrian Joseph

After this, Theophilus backed away from the door and retreated to his bed. He heard the footsteps grow distant, signaling their fleeting presence. His pain was as enigmatic as it was fierce; aches radiated from his head to his abdomen. He felt nauseous on a daily basis, but physicians and healers who visited could not find the source of such pains. But, both physicians and healers agreed that the irregular beating of his heart signified tumor growth.

Footsteps grew nigh, but the sounds, he recognized, were Spiro’s. Spiro knocked ever carefully to which Theophilus opened the door. When he opened the door, he was greeted with Spiro’s melancholic, almost expressionless smile. Theophilus then looked past him to make certain that there were no scorners or hecklers lurking in the home.

“It is just I alone,” Spiro said, entering the loft.

“I listened; I heard each word. They want me to perform for them out there in the open. Is that why you’ve come to see me?”

Spiro nodded and sat on a wooden chair that was near the jaded piano. “Sit, please.”

“I want to stand. I have sat all day, father.”

“Remember what I said? I asked only one thing of you these years; keep the window shut. But, you refused to heed my words. Now, you have made many enemies because of this.” said Spiro unto Theophilus.

“I will not deprive myself of joy for them. They should be content with their lives.

Look,” Theophilus said, walking to the window and opening the drapes, “they are blessed! They are able to enjoy the world; they can walk freely, they can run, they can sing -- they can do anything. But, father, take a gander at me. I am your bewildered son! See how immobile and imprisoned I am? Like you wrote in the letter, death is following close behind me. Why then, should I deprive myself even further?”

When Theophilus finished speaking, Spiro searched for words to speak, but found none that matched the prowess of Theophilus’. He gazed upon the piano. The piano was not like the piano in the square; the piano in the square was polished, tuned, and majestic. It was there in the midst of the square, near a marble structure that gushed with water. Whenever Theophilus opened his window, he saw it in the distance. It was untouched, for many lacked musical abilities.

“I will do it,” said Theophilus, closing the lavender drapes and sitting on the edge of his bed. “Maybe, Theodora will follow. Then, you all will see that there is no insanity to be found here. Only then, in my time of playing, will everyone leave me be. No more will I be bothered. Tell them, father, that I agree.”

“But, they’ll tease you. You’ll be the source of their jokes!”

“Let them attend to their jokes and let me attend to my music,” then replied Theophilus unto Spiro.

Erelong, the time approached; a crowd was gathered in the square ‘neath the sun. It was the afternoon, so the sun was at it’s highest point in the sky. Theophilus lied in his bed, beneath his covers. His clothing was majestic as the mane of a lion and as dark as the twilight. Spiro was not there in the home. He smelled the sweet scent of cooked meat and knew, therefore, that his meal would be brought up to him. As he lay, his eyes became fixed on the ceiling. The ceiling was of many colors; blue, gold,

Andrian Joseph

and black. His vision, he noticed, was far worse than the weeks prior. Theophilus placed his hand to his heart and tried to feel for a steady beat.

“Lord, be with me,” then said he, under his breath. “Let me not be humiliated today.”

Then, a woman maid came up the stairs and knocked. After the sole knock, she opened the door and set a dish down on Theophilus’ wooden, blue table. The table was small, round and a comforting reminder of Theophilus’ prior home when he lived with his birth parents. The woman gave the smallest smile and quietly exited the room.

So, Theophilus ate his meal, which consisted of meat, fruit and bread, and waited for the moment he was called down. As he sat waiting, Theodora, who stayed inside a hole in his wall the night prior, came and perched herself on his piano.

“I agreed to perform. I hope it results in their abandonment of scoffing. I have not been out there in many years. I feel as if agreeing to such a thing was a mistake,” said Theophilus unto Theodora. Theodora, upon hearing his voice, spoke, not in words a person would understand, though, but in musical words.

She said, through a disguise, her apologies for being absent from the eye of others. When she finished talking, a knock against his door echoed, and he, Theophilus, knew the dreaded moment was nigh.

Outside, the square was illuminated -- shining bright with marble architecture that reflected the sunshine. As Theophilis walked from the building and out toward the square, he felt, for the first time in years, the warmth of the sun against his face. But, the blissful moment was but a brief instant, for he was greeted by the sounds of laughter and insults. By his side, Spiro walked; they were walking hand in hand.

“Do not pay them any mind,” then said Spiro unto Theophilus.

Theophilus was led through the crowd until he came in sight of the grand piano.

The piano was of the utmost beauty; things his eyes witnessed in times before, paled in comparison with the glossy piano. The keys were ivory; an emblem of a butterfly was engraved on the piano’s side. As he stood and marveled at the piano, an elderly man approached him.

“Ah, so you are but a tiny creature. We had it in our minds that you were somewhat taller,” said the elderly man unto Theophilus. “Mister Floros told us you agreed to perform. I am impressed thus far.”

“I have come to perform in hopes that my music will show to everyone that the appearance of it’s creator has no effect on it’s sound. I hope,” said Theophilus, pausing and looking about the square, “that hereafter, the listeners will scorn me no more.”

When he finished speaking, Evangelos spoke aloud, “But, when this man plays this piano, or any piano for that matter, it is not really himself doing it -- it is the work of an evil spirit!”

After Evangelos said this, the crowd grew silent. Many did agree with him, but their voices they kept to themselves. Then, Andreas, his friend, also spoke, saying, “He is right. There is no talent within him. Look! Just look and you will see that he is incapable of creating beauty. He is a gorgon!” Many of Evangelos’ and Andreas’ friends agreed, so they shouted and laughed.

“Please, be gentle,” then said Spiro, seating Theophilus at the piano, “let him first play his music before you laugh and tease him.”

“Where is she?” whispered Theophilus unto his keeper.

“Whom do you speak?”

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11

Andrian Joseph

“Theodora, the gifted friend of mine. She must be here!” said Theophilus into the ear of his keeper.

“What means all this whispering? Play!” the elderly man said. The elderly man was a city politician.

Then, Theodora came, from what Theophilus perceived to be a fairy door near his loft window. Like times before, she perched herself on the piano. The onlookers were astonished at the sight and many of them fled. Others began saying things such as, “The wicked spirit inside him calls upon God’s creatures to aid him in his music!” But, still, many others said nothing and continued to watch him and the bird. Unbeknownst to the townsfolk, Theodora sang her melodious ideas into the mind of Theophilus. They, the onlookers, thought he was insane when he moved in nearer to the bird when it chirped.

Without introducing a name for the piece, he began to play the grand piano. The sounds that emitted the polished, black instrument were like the sounds of angelic laughter. Though, many heard other musicians play the piano, no one played the instrument like Theophilus. He played, with a face that showcased the pure bliss he exhibited, much to the amazement of the people in the square. While playing, he became unaware of his environment and saw only the piano and Theodora. Her small, minuscule eyes were full of both wonder and inspiration. Her voice was a grand mystery to everyone but him.

“This cannot be the work of a demon. A demon brings no joy, but look and you will see that tears have run down my face!” said a dark-haired woman that stood near Andreas. When Andreas heard this, his face grew scarlet with envy.

“But, keep listening -- he is not finished yet!” Spiro said unto all the onlookers.

Their faces, save for few, were frozen in bewilderment. The window to the loft, whereout came Theodora, was illuminated with reflections of the sun. Theophilus saw this and a smile came over his repulsive face.

“Cease,” then said the politician unto Theophilus, “we need no longer hear this beautiful music. You have proved that it is you who has been playing all these years.” Then he turned and faced part of the crowd. The crowd, though full of some smiles, seemed to fume with envy and choler. “You people asked me, time and time again, to test the validity of this pianist. Now, it is clear as day to me that he is indeed a spectacular musician. No longer will I heed your envious remarks,” continued the politician as he left the presence of the people in the square.

After the politician left, people began to applaud Theophilus, much to his delight.

Though, no one knew that the prowess of creativity stemmed from the mind of Theodora, not Theophilus; indeed, he was the performer, but the ideas were not his.

People began to leave the square, and as they did so, they talked amongst themselves about the grand performance. Others gawked at him with envy; their hearts were offended by such beautiful music. As the square became more and more empty, Theophilis continued to sit with Theodora and Spiro at his side. He stayed this way until evening.

“You did not believe me when I first said, ‘there is a bird who sings ideas unto me’, but now you have seen it with your own two eyes. I am not insane, I am only dying,” said Theophilus unto his guardian, breaking a long silence.

“If a man came to you and said to you, ‘there is a bird who sings ideas unto me’, would you believe him? You certainly would not.”

“I would if I saw proof of it. Me playing such beautiful things is proof. I can think of nothing on my own. You know this. All the beautiful ideas are from her.”

“I did not believe you at first, my son, but now I am your biggest advocate; I will believe everything you tell me now.”

Andrian Joseph

After the two spoke these words, they left the piano and walked home, beneath the darkening sky. The piano did continue to glimmer; it’s reflective gloss was like the surface of the ocean. They walked and walked, talking and enjoying themselves. But, they did not know that danger lingered nigh.

Behind some trees, Evangelos and Andreas hid. They watched, like buzzards, as Theophilus and Spiro walked home. The sky was even darker than before, so, like shadows, Evangelos and Andreas were unseen as they traveled about darkness.

Their clothing was black and their hair was black, so the friends had a natural bond; what one did, the other did, and what one thought, the other thought.

They, especially Evangelos, had a grudge against Theophilus, but wherefore no one knew.

The two came in sight of the window that led to Theophilus’ dwelling. In the darkness, the two stood, watching the window. They watched as Theophilus and Spiro entered the residence. Erelong, the lantern within the window began to glow faintly; this signaled the arrival of Theophilus to his dwelling.

“He is now there. Look at the lantern,” said Evangelos unto his friend.

“For what reason do we stand and gaze upon his window?” said Andreas.

“Below, we stand like poor men, while he charms the entirety of the town. They say that his death is nigh, but I believe that is false. He deserves no praise from the people. He and his devilish bird will stand benighted, erelong. Their light shall soon be swallowed by darkness.”

“What means this?” asked Andreas unto Evangelos.

“His life will be no more, for tomorrow evening he will see death.”

“And you will be the taker of his life?”

“Us both,” replied Evangelos.

“How so?”

“You will be the one to commit the deed, while I will be the overseer of it.”

Andreas became excited at the thought and replied, “By what means will he die?”

“There is a millstone atop the place he dwells. I will be the one to lure him from the place. Then, you will drop the stone on him.”

“But, there will be many people. Look and you will see that even now there are many people outside. Surely there is a smarter way.”

“My ways are smartest,” then said Evangelos. He walked away after he spoke, leaving his friend in the darkness.

The next evening was upon the people of Nafplio. In the square, people walked to and fro. Evangelos stood, trying to conjure up wrath by staring at the grand piano in the square. He drank from a long-necked bottle of wine. The red wine soaked his mustache. The man appeared like a drunken fool, covered in blood-like wine.

Andreas, he saw, was approaching. Andreas walked nigh, perspiring.

“You are frightened and you have yet to even touch the millstone,” said Evangelos. He rested against a lamp, drinking still.

“It isn’t easy preparing for the taking of a life,” replied Andreas. He then took the wine bottle from his friend and took a drink.

The two men began their walk to the home of Theophilus. Like the prior night, they walked hand in hand with shadows. Andreas walked, deep in thought, while Evangelos continued drinking. Neither man spoke, but both were aware of the other’s wicked deed.

Not long after they set out toward it, they reached the viewing point where they stood the night before. Evangelos took a drink and said unto his friend, “Now take heed of my words, don’t be a drunken mess when you get to the top of the building. Oh how embarrassing it would be to watch you die while you attempted

12

13

Andrian Joseph

to kill.”

“I took just one drink; look at you -- you’re drinking the entire bottle,” said Andreas. He then ran, clad in darkness, toward the dwelling of Theophilus.

Evangelos watched and noticed that not one person looked at the running Andreas. He leaned his back against the base of a tree and stared into Theophilus’ window. The curtains were not open, so he saw a blank glass instead. He finished the remainder of wine and began to walk toward the building.

Theophilus attempted to walk straight, but his vision was in a constant spinning.

He looked about his surroundings and saw many people, none of whom took notice of him. Finally approaching the door to the residence, he wiped his mustache with the collar of his shirt and maintained his composure. He grabbed onto the gargoyle knocker and knocked three times. As he stood waiting, he saw Andreas appear from the corner of the building. He was drenched in sweat and his face was whiter than snow. Andreas hurried toward Evangelos and whispered to him, “I couldn’t do it. If I’ve met with such ill thoughts before the killing of this man, what then awaits me once he is dead?” After he whispered, he disappeared somewhere beyond the trees.

Before Evangelos could contemplate his flawed morality, the door opened. He was greeted by Spiro. “What brings you to my door at this odd hour?” asked Spiro, with a shocked expression over his aged face.

“Ah! Take a gander at me; I’ve knocked on the wrong door,” replied Evangelos unto Spiro. “Enjoy your evening and forget that I even ventured into your presence.”

After he said this, he turned, stumbling, and ran for the trees. He was embarrassed, but the spinning still did not cease it’s dominance over him. Once he was in the darkness of the trees, he looked back and saw that Spiro had already closed the door. Evangelos stood in the darkness, beside a tree. Near the tree was the empty bottle of wine he had downed just moments before. He took the bottle and hurled it into the darkness. The sound of shattering glass echoed from the black obscurity.

“Now everyone will know I am both a drunk and a man of envy. Maybe he’ll tell everyone else about my assassination plan, so must he die?” asked Evangelos unto himself. As he talked to himself, he walked along the trees; behind the trees was a river. The river, at night, looked like a mass of dark mirrors. “Maybe he should have taken in more wine, in which case he’d fall from the building and he’d be dead by now,” he said again, moving through the trees and coming in sight of the river.

He sat on a large stone that was near the water’s edge and peered into the water.

Thereupon, he saw in the water, his image. His image was uglier than that of a gorgon; he had a bulging head, tiny eyes, a large nose, and a mouth that hung open. Upon seeing his reflection, he cried out, “Is this my punishment for being so cruel to the man? Well, if I am being punished, my punishing of Theophilus will not end!” After he lamented loudly, he stood and looked about the darkness.

In one of the trees, he saw a lavender bird. He recognized the bird as the same one that aided Theophilus in his musical piece. The bird was perched on a branch; it was still as the night sky. Evangelos then carefully knelt to retrieve a large, oval stone. He cast the stone in the direction of Theodora, but before it could impact her, she fled the branch. The stone instead collided against the tree branch, which produced an awfully loud sound. When it collided, many birds withdrew themselves from the tree in a hurry. Startled, Evangelos lost footing; thereinto the silent water he fell. As he suffocated in the night, Theodora, the gifted hummingbird, perched herself on the yonside of the archway bereft of any ruth.

John Pett

THE MEETING We dive into Soho House for a quick meeting with our would be/maybe/as-longas-I-don’t-lose-any –money-and-time film producer about getting funding for our screen adaptation of a Thomas Hardy novel. She gazes, green eyed, into my eyes.

I’m startled for a second. Is she open mouthed in love with me, gazing at me like that or is she really a bit vacant? Then she turns and does the same to Isabella, my partner in writing as well as life. It’s not love then. Must be the other thing then.

Bodes well for the script meeting with the funding body later.

Little twitch of panic when a better dressed girl than the three of us comes up and asks what we want to drink. Oh God. Cappuccino ? - sounds tacky. Tea? - I’ll have to say that I hate Earl Grey which will make me look lower middle class. Alcohol?

- will make me look like an inadequate alcoholic. Oh, alright, water. Soho House must be filled with bottles of fizzy water.

I turn and catch someone looking at me, quizzing me, trying to work out if I could be someone worth knowing. Well, he is with that pretty young producer who used to work at Miramax and the beautiful moody looking French girl. I look back at him, quizzically, trying to work out as if he should be someone that I should think worth knowing.

‘You know, they want us to do this as a modern day thing?’ our producer says.

I refuse to look at Isabella. I just hope she hasn’t understood for now.

‘Oh yes and for teenagers,’ she adds.

‘For?’ I ask hoping I haven’t understood correctly.

Very assertively, ‘Teen movie,’ comes the reply.

Thomas Hardy The Teen Movie!

Even more assertively, ‘I think it could work.’

‘Yeah, yeah. I mean, yeah, definitely,’ I say, not believing a word I’m saying.

‘It’s the only way we’re going to get the funding.’

Obviously. Otherwise we wouldn’t be nodding our heads, slightly bemusedly.

‘So, we’ve got to brain storm about how we could do this as a modern day teen movie. Or maybe somewhere between a teen and adult movie. Any ideas?’

Yes, run for your lives...

‘How long have we got?’ I ask.

‘About an hour’.

‘Cool.’

Why don’t we just say no now and save months of wasted time, humiliation, confusion, hurt...

‘But look, if you don’t want to go through this process, then it’s fine, you know.’

Meaning : if you don’t go along with everything we want and are not prepared to completely re-write everything on our suggestion, then we shall just have to put you down as difficult, unable to come to terms with the development process and therefore losers with a bad attitude who will never make it in the film industry.

‘It’s entirely up to you.’

‘Yeah, no, let’s give it a go. Is she definitely up for it at the Film Council then?’

Sudden fear streaks across our producer’s eyes.

‘I didn’t say that. I think she could be interested. She really loves the book. She read it when she was sixteen.’

Oh so she’s got an in-depth knowledge about it then. Probably just read the GCSE study aid notes.

14

15

John Pett

‘But it’s down to you guys to convince her and come up with something really exciting. But I’ve got faith in you guys.’

So, if all this goes wrong, then it’s going to be entirely our fault for not coming up with something exciting?

‘Shame, we haven’t got very much time,’ I venture.

Yes, don’t you think you could have told us this when we set up the meeting a couple of weeks ago?

‘I think she’ll go for it if you come up with something surprising.’

Yes, you keep on saying that, thanks for taking the pressure off us. It’s a bit like the “can’t you make this gag funnier” type of help.

‘Think laterally.’

Now, it’s strange that we just didn’t say, “What the hell are you talking about, teenage film?” But somehow the atmosphere gets laden against you, the air pushes back against your mouth, your brain ceases to function, my left eye starts to twitch (always a bad sign), I have to put my finger on it to stop it twitching too noticeably. I can’t look at Isabella. I don’t want to provoke her. She’s obviously died from amazement anyway.

I just can’t find the courage, wit or time to say...anything really. I squirm there, not looking once at Isabella for fear of encouraging her even more as she starts to say things that bring a massively dead silence from our producer and funds holding exec/torturer. Please don’t say anything more Isa. They don’t want you to talk. I don’t know how, considering what ill-informed crap they are saying but somehow you are looking such a prat coming out with your stuff and they are looking so cool, so right, sucking their little soup cups. What do they need us for exactly?

They seem to be in such agreement on how the film should be written. I don’t think we are asked one single question on how we see the film being written.

Me: ‘So, d’you definitely see this as being a teen film then?’

Our Exec : ‘Yeah, it definitely has to be a teen film.’

Our Producer : ‘Yeah or somewhere in between maybe. Not a teen film but not an adult film either.’

That’s more helpful, we’re getting it now. What is that? Like between music and crap - musac. Teen film and adult movie -MISTAKE. Get the hell out of there. I still don’t look at Isa, I don’t want to provoke her into action. I beg her with my silence not to say anything anymore.

Because there suddenly seems such a logic behind what they’re saying. They suddenly seem so right. I don’t know if it’s the fact that they’re both drinking the same soup but they seem suddenly so cool and we seem like...funny old people up for the day on the coach.

‘I think the film’s about Stephen,’ our exec/torturer says, confidently.

That’s interesting because the book clearly isn’t. It’s about a nineteen year old girl.

‘I think today’s teenagers would more identify with Stephen,’ she adds.

Our producer (to us) : ‘I think she’s got a really good point there.’

‘And the ending. It’s got to be changed. I think she should end up with Stephen.’

What have you got with this bloody Stephen??? She doesn’t love Stephen, she doesn’t love Knight, she ends up with Lord Luxellian.

‘I don’t like, what’s his name, Lord Mexford,’our exec goes on.

‘D’you mean Luxellian?’ I ask.

‘He’s old and old fashioned. Maybe we don’t need him. And I think we’ve got a problem with the setting.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Couldn’t it be set in Birmingham or somewhere?’

John Pett

‘What, you mean instead of Cornwall?’

‘Yeah, it’s a bit boring isn’t it, setting it in the countryside?’

‘But Hardy sets all his novels in the countryside, it’s sort of what he’s known for.’

She turns to our producer.

‘Birmingham is really in at the moment.’

Our producer : ‘Yeah, I think it’s a really good idea (turning to us) or what about Brighton?’

Our exec : ‘Brighton’s cool.’

Our producer : ‘And it’s by the sea.’

Our exec : ‘Yeah, that’s right, the book is set by the sea. But it’s been done too much, Brighton, don’t you think?’

Our producer: ‘Yeah.’

Our exec : ‘Birmingham is really the place right now.’

Our producer (turning to us, willing us to agree) : ‘I can see Birmingham.’

Isa : ‘But the whole point is, she’s meant to be getting bored living in the depths of the countryside, that’s why when she comes up to London, it’s such a big deal.’

A little pause.

Our exec (to our producer): ‘Isn’t the countryside a bit boring for teenagers?’

Our producer (to our exec): ‘What about Hastings?’

Our exec (to our producer): ‘I went up to Birmingham recently, they’ve really got a good scene going up there.’

Our producer (to us) : ‘I think Birmingham could work.’

So, let’s get this straight. We’re going for something between a teen flick and an adult movie. Set in Birmingham, if possible (or Hastings). Not too much boring Hardy countryside. Lots of London nightlife. Posh parties. A completely different ending. A different main character. Getting away from the book as much as possible and at the same time doing justice to a great story. You’re both sodding off ski-ing now for 3 weeks. But expect something in your mailbox when you get back.

Our exec(to our producer): ‘You going to Bertorelli’s for your Christmas party then?’

Our producer (to our exec) : ‘Yeah, when’s yours?’

Our exec (to our producer) : ‘Friday lunch.’

Our Producer (to our exec) : ‘Oh ours is tomorrow. We went to the French House last year.’

Our exec (to our producer) : ‘Did you?’

As our two torturers discuss their christmas parties in a fun, jovial, enjoying life sort of a way, what they don’t see is my life and writing partner ,Isa, getting a strange look in her eye. The sort of look I’ve seen many times. A sort of warning light that comes up when she’s about to explode.

I see her eyeing up their soup cups in a strangely aggressive way. At first I wonder if she’s just hungry. And then, as she suddenly gets to her feet, I start to worry.

At first, she makes a strange little nervous coughing noise to get their attention but they’re far too busy discussing menus to pay any attention. I can’t look as she steps calmly up towards them. I bury my head down in my bag, as if busy tidying away the thousands of contradictory notes they’ve just given us. I can’t look. And can only imagine the scene of carnage as Isa calmly swipes the soup cup out of our producer’s hand, looks to see if there’s any left in it and then pours it over her head. As our producer collapses in shock, so shocked she can’t even get the words ‘SECURITY!’ out of her soup stained mouth, Isa then goes onto our funding exec who, by this stage, is so scared she just hands the soup cup over to Isa, accepting her fate. Isa, with a little smile on her face, literally rubs the remaining soup into

16

our exec’s hair and face and then proceeds to...

I look up...as Isa politely says good-bye to our two torturers before turning to go and I really wish that she had rubbed soup in their faces, longed for the time when we started out as writers when she would very probably have done so but, in fact, none of that actually happened and was all just wishful thinking as I tidied my papers away, wished them happy christmas and followed Isa out the door.

John Pett

17

Alec Silifant

50​ ​Shades​ ​of​ ​Green Richard James tapped the small man on the shoulder. “Excuse me?”

The man turned. The thinning, curly hair on his head seemed to blend into the thick, shoulder matting that nature had blessed him with. Visible because of the vest he wore.

“Yeah?”

“Is this Ain Alley?” said Richard, a good foot taller than the vest wearer.

“Sure is,” replied the man, smiling to reveal one gold incisor that tweaked the sunlight in unison with the medallion hung around his neck. “The name’s Ron, maybe I can help you?”

Richard cleared his throat. “My wife, Francine, and I wonder if you could point us in the direction of the purveyors of pornographic vocabulary. We’ve written a book, you see…it’s based loosely on our bedroom exploits.”

“Very loosely,” said Francine quietly, her face blank.

Ron studied the couple, noting the matching slacks and knitted tank tops, assessing the attire as not as cute as the wearers might think it was. He couldn’t help thinking they looked like Mr & Mrs Where’s Wally. “Uh-huh, go on.”

“Well,” said Richard, “we’ve got an agent that think’s it’s a great read, but they’ve told us we need to come here to purchase the rights to certain words we have used in our manuscript before we can have it considered for publication.”

“Of course, the Catch-50 problem. Since ‘Shades’ hit the shelves, some clever dicks took out copyright on sexual phrases and terminology,” said Ron, lifting his arm to stroke his meagre moustache, at the same time displaying a sweat drenched armpit.

“Exactly,” said Richard. “So we need to buy the licences for the words before we can go any further. Would you..?”

“Not a problem, mate,” said Ron. “You’ve come to the right place. I’ll get you sorted.” He aimed this last statement, via direct eye contact, at Francine.

Francine turned her head and blushed.

“So you know who we need to talk to?” said Richard.

“I do,” said Ron. “In fact, I’m one of those you need to talk to but I’m merely a little fish in the pond, only dealing in the ‘could be construed as naughty’ market.”

“The what, sorry?” said Richard.

“Words that could be considered smutty with the correct inflection or context,” said Ron. “For example, moist, quivering, suck, lick, thrust, hard, wet; that kind of thing.”

“Oh, I see,” said Richard. He turned to Francine. “He says he’s one of the people we need to deal with.”

“Yes,” said Francine, doing nothing to hide her contempt, “I did hear him.”

Richard smiled and turned back to Ron. “She’s very excited to be getting her name on the front of a book…and it’ll be there right under mine…in a slightly smaller font, of course.”

Ron smiled without displaying his teeth, golden or otherwise. “I’m sure she’s stoked about such great billing.”

“So, although we do need some examples of ‘construed as naughty’ words, we’ll need a lot more stronger ones too.” Richard puffed up with pride. “What we’ve written is pretty steamy stuff even if I say so myself. Francine couldn’t walk for a week after we researched chapter twelve.”

18

19

Alec Silifant

“Not true,” said Francine.

“She’s shy,” said Richard.

“Okay, it’s like this,” said Ron, directing the coordinated clothed couple to look up Ain Alley with a pointed finger. “The more pornographic the words, the further up the street you have to go; and the further up the street you go, the more expensive the rights become.”

“I see, so if we were looking for a boner or two…?” said Richard.

“You’d see old Mary. She deals with soft, naughty slang. Your willies, foo-foo, jugs, love spuds and pillows, etc,” said Ron. “If you’re after a fanny, UK and US, Mary’s the girl for you.”

“And that carries on right up the street?” asked Francine.

“Yeah,” said Ron, “right up to the ‘Sisters of Thesorearse’ who snaffled the rights to the proper hard core stuff. Cock, vadge, twat, all the really steamy, triple x stuff.”

“What about cu-” “Yup, that’s theirs too,” said Ron. “But don’t forget you’re going to need adjectives to add some variety. Slippery Johnson is the bloke to see about them. He usually has a two for one sale on, so you could get clamping and gushing as a package to use in whichever combination you like. However, he never sells juicy other than on its own though; big demand for juicy.”

“Oh, we know all about that, don’t, we dear?” said Richard, prodding Francine in the ribs with his elbow. “We know all about juicy, hey?”

“Hmmm,” said Francine.

Ron rubbed his chin. “Getting down to business then, how many words are you looking for?”

Richard rummaged in the 1970’s school type satchel slung over his shoulder and pulled out a piece of A4. “I’ve got a list here.” He handed it to Ron. Ron read down the paper using a finger as a guide. “That’s mine…and that…and that…that’s Mary’s…looks like you’ll need to see the Sisters about the last half of the words on this list.” He folded the sheet and handed it back.

“Okay, if we were to purchase what we need to off you, how much will that cost?” said Richard, pulling out his wallet.

“No, no, no,” said Ron, waving a dismissive hand at the faux-leather goods. “We don’t do it like that. You send each merchant a copy of the manuscript, we read through it, noting every instance of the words we own, and then we bill you. It’s all very above board. We even have our own funds transfer system called Money-Shot…I think Pervy Pete owns the rights to that.”

“Every instance?” said Richard.

“Yeah,” said Ron, noticeably taken aback. “Do you think we could feed our families selling the words on a one sale, use as often as you like basis?!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Richard, trying to hide his naive embarrassment, “how foolish of me. Besides, we’ll be making so much money from our story, a few quid going out won’t matter will it, darling?”

Francine mocked a smile and shook her head.

“Do you give estimates?” said Richard.

Ron rubbed his chin, his fingers grated on the stubble. “Not usually,” he said, “but seeing as I like you,” this he directed at Francine with his best leer. “I reckon you’re looking at about…two and a half grand.”

“Two and a half-” Richard stopped his exclamation as he caught the shrivelling look on Francie’s face. “I suppose that’s not an unreasonable price for a sure fire best seller.”

Alec Silifant

Ron tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “You do realise that’s just for the rights to the words I own and their use. I can’t speak for the others and only having had a glance at some of the choices you’ve made, I reckon you’re looking at a bill in excess of a third of a million in total.”

“What?! You bunch of thieving twats,” said Richard, thrusting his wallet back into the pocket of his brown cords. “I suppose you’re going to try and bill me for saying that too.”

“No, of course not. Firstly, that’s one of the Sister’s words, so I can’t charge you for it and secondly, there’s the verbal usage loophole. All uttered versions of the words are free of charge. Imagine the administrative nightmare of trying to collect royalties every time someone called their mate a nob-jockey in a pub on a Saturday night, if that wasn’t the case,” said Ron, quite jollily.

“Oh, I’m glad you find this amusing, you cobblestone shyster,” said Richard. “You have ruined my, and Francine’s, dream.”

“Sorry, pal,” said Ron, “I don’t make the laws.”

“Ruined-my-dream…hasn’t he, Francine?”

Francine ignored the purple faced Richard and spoke directly to the portly, sweaty, hirsute, vest wearing, imp before her. “So if the words are free to say, would we have to pay anyone for their use if we made a film instead of publishing a book?”

“Nope,” said Ron, “you could loudly declare specific levels of vaginal moistness or hardness of cocks to your heart’s content, without facing a bill from any legally licensed purveyor here in Ain Alley.”

Richard smiled. “Oh, very good, dear, very good. You’ve cut these bastards right out of the picture…literally. A film. Yes. Ha! A film.”

“Would you like to make a film of the book?” said Francine.

“Oh, God, yes, that would be brilliant,” said Richard, his corduroys already getting tighter with anticipation of the first cry of ‘action’.

Francine exhaled loudly, head bowed. “I wasn’t talking to you, Richard, I was talking to Ron.” “What?” said Ron, physically rocked back an inch or two. “You and me make a film of..?”

“The Pound of Music,” said Francine.

“I’m in,” said Ron. “You’d better be,” said Francine, widening her eyes, “right in up to the nuts.”

“But Francine...?” said Richard, as Francine turned her tank-topped back and walked away.

Ron patted Richard on the shoulder. “Bad luck, mate, it just isn’t meant to be sometimes. Do me a favour and watch my patch, will you? I’m expecting The Bishop of Tonbridge to show up and settle his bill for this month and don’t let the Sisters get to him first; he made it onto their red list and boy is he in for a kicking with some comfortable shoes. A bashed bishop is no use to me.” Ron winked at Richard then eagerly trotted after Francine.

Richard shoulders sagged and he muttered all the freebies he could muster, taking little comfort in the fact that writing them down would have set him back a pretty penny indeed.

20

Lullabies at Dawn She would sing in the morning and I’d drop back to sleep, wading through pillows to the remnants of Dream.

She’d sing to the trees while she hung laundry, folded socks over the line and pinched them with pegs.

Bethany McTrustery

She’d sing when no one was there lulled the air to stillness as the song poured from her lips, closed her eyes at each crescendo.

The morning she stopped singing was when I started.

Filling the silences with clumsy verses that I remembered like filtered dreams.

21

Ragnarok.

On the ground, a man rides, spear in hand, on a horse of eight limbs galloping forth on a dark night.

The horn screams.

Clouds gather like lost sheep on a dark night.

Thunder roars like a madman on a dark night.

From the sky a golden man from the heavens to save us all or to damn us all.

Hammer held in hand, he raises it to the sky and lightning scorches the earth.

Ground rumbles like a starved glutton on a dark night.

Chris Harris

Buildings fall like a man stabbed on a dark night.

From the ground a giant serpent from the hells to damn us all or to save us all.

Fangs bared and reared it roars at the sky and drowns out the thunder.

Serpent and man clash in both ground and sky.

The horn roars louder than the thunder, louder than the Serpent’s shouts.

An ancient sound, it echoes through time and space, ground and sky heaven and hell.

22

Dark red eyes glow, melting the darkness around them.

A beast on all fours snarls and leaps on a dark night.

Man and wolf spear and fang collide in a battle of immortals.

Buildings levelled by lightning and quakes are scorched by flames on a dark night.

Mortals, collateral of spear and fangs are scorched by flames on a dark night.

A monstrous being clad only in flames burnt the ground beneath it as it crushed the land underfoot.

One fiery pupil was quenched, as if something tried to fight.

But it is fruitless.

Serpent against man Wolf against man Chaos against man.

Ragnarok.

What was the last thing you wrote?

Pla

y?

Po e t

G ra

r y?

N c i ph

l e v o

?

e? s o Pr

Can’t remember, now a good time to start for our next submission!

Closing date: 14th January 2018!

23

underthefable.com

Maybe something we havent seen before?

I saw.

I saw the moon from your bedroom.

I saw your blood on the floor.

I saw the tracks of the bad men; cutting a swathe through the snow.

I saw no reason to linger.

I saw the gun on the wall.

I saw I must be the bringer; of vengeance beyond the law.

Angus Shoor Caan

I saw their fire on the hillside.

I saw clouds cover the moon.

I saw you dead by your bedside.

Those men will join you soon.

I saw them down to their bare hides.

I saw them out into the snow.

I saw their clothes to the fireside.

And watched their dying eyes in the glow.

24

UNTITLED 1. there lies no reasons in our rehearsal of sentences practically, words that have no applicational boo-boo etymology – in exchanges of all that’s cosmic, great time, relative to language – reckonings like stern boulders – personal universe, incomplete sayings ringing in every-moment feelings, music of words, untouched conclusions – if there’s anger and ending – flow and rhythm – then, instead of the growth and development of these, we behold flattery in confabulations 2. arrival of fresh vision – stoic, they don’t look back – at the crowding pissoffs behind, thinks, faces past – faces of the past – beautiful curtain misty eyes wiped, going away - to Mediterranean islands – rundown, bereft – sailor whose stewardship, intended, brings spring, brings globalization Sinbad coos on – investment of resolutions; right at the beginning of this journey, ahoy, their mofussils have lost out to the distance of continents

25

Tanvir Ratul

3. coarse fragrance emitted by officials and parents all diving into the water system – it does not prescribe dry autumn roots – downloading the kilometres of every meeting, every action, and colour components of airless cities personal transformation to martyrdom bittersweet edges – they were believed to have thoughts – often, we contact our success and at other oftens, it’s all rubbish aspiring for technologies of escape to a Halo – to meet ghosts of dead people – the game of machines is still going strong like the relationship between war and rape-porn

J. O. Hanlon

In The Living Room 2016 [For Mum] Don’t tell me about the ifs and the buts and the whens.

Don’t tell me about the chances and the likelihoods and the only matter of time and best case scenarios...

Just give it to me straight End of the day, down the line but don’t say it will be fine…

When we looked upon the yellowing sycamore spiralling inevitably into the close of the year, outside your netted living room window in Camden Town as you lay on the sofa fading and falling into longed-for sleep like a lifeless pigeon falling and flapping from a tree.

That tree – which I never knew the name of – until now Incandescent in the milky blue of an autumn London sky – Then, you were motionless momentarily – just for a twinkling – considered your hands like withered memories of thin blue foreign canals, skin slack pin back loosened from the bone sack...

Those hands that once tufted my hair - unlike the other boys I alleged; that lifted me high along the High Street that once thwacked my legs when I licked drip drop butter from my knife; that once as a child smoothed my fevered brow Those hands that now overlays underlays in my own hand now…

Just once…do you recall…long ago...

You held me close so close on the momentary loss of me on Hampstead Heath.

It’s not a matter of if but when – they said.

“I won’t see that tree again” you said, “That tree out there” you said.

“You’ll live for another year – maybe ten” - I said – “No loss of you for now” I said.

We observed the outside through the frilled-netted window – from your made-up bed Now set up in the living room.

Those nets that shade or hide from what I never knew.

The passing, walking, mobile chattering affairs of distant strangers...

How many times did you wash those nets by hand?

How many silent memories did you hide from view?

Curtained away inside your soul.

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Your humanity assaulted by destructives forces that now leaves a deepening hole A memory like a fleeting sighing shadow slipped and twitched across your face.

Climbing the garden wall from my nightly escapades, shrouding your thoughts as we comb your hair You clench small lappets of folding skin with heavy weariness from your falling chin.

We rounded our hands in yours and whispered Ciao Mama

J. O. Hanlon

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Saturday’s Britain

Jem Henderson

A mower roars at 8am much to the neighbours dismay.

A man in a bright orange shirt rubs at the sunburn through his thinning hair; rivulets of water dripping off the car, bubbles glitter down a drain.

The hot damp smell off warm grass composting.

The crisp crackle of beer can and barbeque, a door slams, raised voices argue again: who has to wash up this time!

She covers her hair steps outside call to prayer before dinner The neighbours glance at each other over the paddling pool And funny bed sheet brigade.

The children’s laughter arcs across the shimmer blue sky

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Jigsaw I

Am

a mess

Won’t Y ou come Fix m e?

Layla Josie

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Sally Latimer-Boyce

CAN YOU JUST…?

These 3 simple words are learned from infant stage:“can” and “you” and “just” are engrained from early age.

But put these word together As a brief request of terms, and no matter who is asking it becomes a can of worms.

“Can you just” is followed by a task for you to do, they may not know how long it takes - no one knows but you From dawn ‘til dusk it’s lurking a statement keen to pounce, it comes from out of nowhere and is easy to announce.

The nature of the sentence is intended to imply, “it’s just a really simple thing!” so, you really can’t deny.

The question may seem harmless and a bit of a surprise, but in truth, its delegation - it’s the devil in disguise.

Fielding such enquiries is a challenge of its own, they slip under your radar by email, text or phone.

Of course you are obliging willing to say yes, we want to help our loved ones it’s what we all do best.

You may be asked just one time or multiple times per day, you have a default answer “of course I can” you say.

But overwhelmed with task lists that only you can do, it dawns on you - you’ve bit off more than you can chew.

Now the challenge hits you your palms begin to sweat, you cannot let your side down so you begin to fret.

A few late nights or early starts become the daily norm, you think that you are coping but you’re brewing up a storm.

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Time it now escapes you fatigued, you soldier on, you ask the frequent question where has my ‘today’ gone?

Rewarding as it may be to say yes at their behest, consider the implications before accepting their request. it isn’t wrong to pause a while and set yourself a rule, consider saying no at times - don’t be a busy fool.

Poetry Tour 2018!

We are looking for dates and places to tour too!

Have you performed before?

All are welcome to attend, Whether its your first time or your hundredth time, We want to hear from you!

Contact us! by email or social media!

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Monsoon skies I wonder I do of the thoughts inside you; beckoning the bottle, the only thing you know as true, to our soft lips once again, a heady scent drawing you in, of the power in those razor blades, and the mirror set aside for other things than looking in.

Amelia Knaggs

Because who am I in all of this?

The pretty girl who just ‘sits’?

Watches you wash your life away nothing I do can make you stay.

A deadly poison you have sipped, you laugh and enjoy the crippling tonic, while my heart stopped when you made me try.

Sleeping beauty could not open her eyes.

And still you carry on waving your rolled up note in the air: “I am KING you have no order here!”

Your land is one I fear.

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LEAVING He’s free of the town okay - maybe one stop.

The cross at the roadside, wreathed in dead flowers, tinsel, and sun-dried teddy bears.

He has nothing to give, but goodbyes.

The grave tells a lie.

This is the place where understanding died.

Then it’s back to the road, past roadkill, scattered green bags of trash, and the trail to the lake where no guy enters the water without a beer can in his hand.

John Grey

Day’s at the end.

Sun swathes the trees.

In the rear view mirror, everything green is fool’s gold.

No more being called names.

No more beatings in the town park.

“You are now exiting...” says the sign.

“Come back soon.”

He won’t.

His last glimpse is of a tractor rusting in the weeds, a bastion of the manly land sprouting pink flowers.

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Contined from the last issue...

Lazerbeams ACT TWO

Hayden Robinson

SCENE 1

The theatre space at the local college. GEORGINA is reciting.

GEORGINA …for no one is better than

anyone in this world

yet we are pushed everyday

to be in some kind of

competition with…

She stops and thinks.

That doesn’t quite sound right. Hmm…competition…contest? No, that’s only used in America. Contention? No. (pause) Rivalry? Rivalry. Rivalry!

She smiles and scribbles it down. She reads. everyday

to be in some kind of

rivalry with

the next person in line.

She shrugs.

Better. (pause) I need a different poem.

Her phone pings. She looks at it.

Time to rehearse my dance.

She puts down her poetry. She starts practicing her dance. She stumbles here and there. This annoys her.

The scene shifts to a yoga class. SHAILENE is the leader. LEWIS is part of the class. They are all standing on one leg.

SHAILENE Let go. Allow your mind to relax. Tell yourself you can do this.

Sometimes the mind prevents us from trying out different things. We are violent to ourselves too often. Let go. Very good. Youse are doin’ brilliantly. Now lower yourself gently back down.

They all do so.

Good. Very good. Now how was that for everyone?

Everyone nods in agreement.

Wonderful. Now to finish off, let’s lie down on our mats. Slowly, breathing in and out as you do so.

The class all lie down on their mat.

Now close your eyes and breathe in and out. Relax all your muscles, from your toes up to your hips, to your fingers and to your chest and finish at your mind. The mind is the core of our stress, anxieties, depression, fear and hesitation. But what it also holds is our bravery, our happiness, our love, our passion, our drive, our confidence, our commitment, the best we can offer. The purpose of yoga is to bring those positive qualities out. To help you to tell yourselves that, whatever happens in your life, you can get through it. We all face hard times, but it’s up to ourselves to choose whether we suffer through it or we stand up to it. Relax. Breathe. That’s it. Think of your joints as water flowing

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SCENE 2 GEORGINA is walking home. NIGE appears.

NIGE Oi! GEORGINA Oh no…

NIGE I want a word with you.

GEORGINA tries to run away, but NIGE grabs her.

Where are you going? Where are you going?

GEORGINA Leave me alone! Please!

NIGE No trouble. No trouble at all. I’m not responsible for your actions, am I? Am I not?

GEORGINA Huh? NIGE Huh? Huh? Can’t even form a sentence. (pause) Listen here: you’re going to stay away from the poetry night. You’re going to leave it be. It’s my time. I’ve been ignored way too often for a little shit like you to take it away from me. You stay away or else.

No answer. NIGE pushes her away. GEORGINA cries.

SCENE 3 LEWIS stands by the dustbin in his flat. He stares at a pack of tablets. He dumps them in the bin. SHAILENE walks in.

SHAILENE Y’ done it then?

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Hayden Robinson

through you. Keep your eyes closed. The outside world is of little consequence here. In this class, you are safe. In this moment, you are free. As I said before, we are violent to ourselves out there in the world, but that doesn’t need to be the case.

We are worth it all. We are good, we are brave, and with the right mind set, we can get through anything.

Silence.

Now open your eyes. Keep breathin’. Slowly sit up.

Everyone does so.

Good. That’s very good. How does everyone feel?

A few people nod and smile.

LEWIS This has been the most relaxed I’ve been in a long time. Shailene has been tryin’ to get me to go for ages, but I just – I guess I didn’t know if it would work or not. Like people say these things don’t help, but I actually feel like I could say anythin’ right now and it wouldn’t matter. I’ve had some bad times – no, not even bad, horrible times. I was thrown about for being bi. I was homeless for a while and I didn’t know who to turn to. I went to live with this guy who was charming, had this bravery, this recklessness about him. I was taken to him so much. Like we’d hold each other at night and I’d kiss his cheek, whisper sweet words in his ear. (pause) Then he broke up with me and kicked me out. (pause) Shailene took me in. Huh, funny how I jump from place to place. (pause) A few weeks later, after not talking to him, I was in town with Shailene. I saw him, holding hands with someone else. I approached him. Just like as a casual thing. I asked how he was.

He was nervous. I asked him how long he and his new fella had been going out.

He said he started seeing him two months before. (pause) While we were together. (pause) I tried not to show that I was cryin’. (pause) I just felt like I didn’t deserve to live. Like all people wanted me for was my camera. I hesitated. But now – now I feel like I am worth something. Nothing else matters except how I feel.

SHAILENE How do you feel?

LEWIS Like I can conquer anythin’ – no, like I can conquer everythin’.

Hayden Robinson

LEWIS Yeah.

SHAILENE Have you talked to the doctors?

LEWIS I’m going to.

SHAILENE Okay baby. (pause) You know I’m here.

LEWIS Yeah I know.

SHAILENE Whether it’s yoga or a goodnight kiss.

LEWIS Or a little bit more.

SHAILENE Oh, you cheeky sod!

LEWIS I am!

They cuddle and kiss.

SHAILENE I’m coming to the poetry night.

LEWIS I didn’t think it would be your thing.

SHAILENE People coming together to preach cliché messages and be narcissistic arseholes? Yeah, makes for a good night out!

LEWIS I need to get hold of Georgina actually. Ask her if she minds being filmed.

SHAILENE Have you got her number?

LEWIS Yeah.

SHAILENE Ring her now then.

LEWIS I shall!

He picks up the phone and dials the number. Pause. No answer. He tries again.

Pause. No answer. He phones once more. Pause. Nothing.

Weird.

SHAILENE Is she not answering?

LEWIS No. (pause) It stops after four beeps. A mobile beeps three times when it’s on.

SHAILENE What’s that got to do with it?

LEWIS I think she’s ignorin’ me.

SHAILENE Surely not.

LEWIS It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Do you think she’s okay?

SHAILENE I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably busy.

LEWIS Yeah. (pause) What is it you don’t like about Nige?

SHAILENE Christ, do we have to talk about him?

LEWIS I’m curious.

SHAILENE That kills the cat.

LEWIS You’re not original.

SHAILENE Fuck off! (pause) You think he’s done somethin’ to Georgina?

LEWIS Would you be surprised if he did?

Silence.

Shailene?

SHAILENE No I wouldn’t be surprised.

LEWIS Why not?

SHAILENE Because me and him were at school together.

LEWIS Seriously?

SHAILENE Yeah.

LEWIS You never mentioned that.

SHAILENE I’d rather not.

LEWIS Was he a prick?

SHAILENE Well, he hasn’t changed much, I tell you that.

LEWIS What did he do?

SHAILENE He was a narcissit, in every sense of the word. He couldn’t take criticism. (pause) He threw a chair at a teacher once.

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SCENE 4 The college entrance. GEORGINA stands there, shivering, looking at her poems.

LEWIS appears.

LEWIS Georgina!

GEORGINA looks.

Why haven’t you been answerin’?

GEORGINA Lewis.

LEWIS Did Nige do something to you?

No answer.

Georgina, he’s a prick! If he’s done something, tell me now!

Nothing.

You shouldn’t let people push you around! There’s so many idiots around, the world needs good people like you! Come on! You can do it! I know you can! If you don’t, you won’t have a life!

GEORGINA Leave me alone! Go away! Please! Go away!

LEWIS stands still for a moment, then walks away.

The scene changes to the Bluebridge theatre space. ANDY is setting up.

GEORGINA approaches.

ANDY Hey, what’s up?

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Hayden Robinson

LEWIS Wait, what?

SHAILENE Yeah, he did that. We were in an English class and we were studying Jekyll and Hyde. Lewis came up with the idea that Robert Louis Stevenson was a guy who had split personality and the book was a reflection. The teacher told Nige that all that happened was that Stevenson had a nightmare. When his wife awoke him, she realised she had interrupted the first transformation scene. That was his idea for the book. (pause) Nige was boiling up. Like I could see red in his eyes.

Then he threw a chair at the teacher. Out of nowhere.

LEWIS (under his breath) Shit.

SHAILENE He got expelled after that. Since then, I haven’t batted an eye with him.

LEWIS I never knew about that.

SHAILENE Didn’t think you would.

LEWIS I’m sorry I brought him here.

SHAILENE Why did you even go with him?

LEWIS I guess – I guess he just had something about him. A charm, like somethin’ that drew y’ in.

SHAILENE He manipulated you.

Silence.

Try Georgina again.

LEWIS uses the phone again. Pause. Nothing.

I’m worried for her myself. Do you know where she lives?

LEWIS No. (goes to get his coat) But I know where her college is.

SHAILENE You’re just going to barge in there?

LEWIS I have to make sure she’s okay.

SHAILENE Lewis, listen!

LEWIS So ya willin’ to let me go to her house but not her college?

SHAILENE Probably because lecturers would be suspicious!

LEWIS Shailene, trust me!

SHAILENE Lewis!

He walks out.

Hayden Robinson

GEORGINA Is it okay if I rehearse here?

ANDY I’m just setting up at the moment. Is there anywhere else?

Silence.

Huh? GEORGINA Actually, there’s something I need to ask. Am I any good?

ANDY What?

GEORGINA Like am I good enough to be at the Bluebridge?

ANDY I can’t answer that until I hear you, sweetheart.

GEORGINA I’m scared that I might not be a good poet.

ANDY Who told you that?

GEORGINA Erm – no one.

ANDY You’re insecure.

GEORGINA Yeah.

ANDY A lot of people get like that, love. Just have to get over it.

GEORGINA But--ANDY Look, it’s your call, but if you sit scared all your life, no one will see what you’re made of or who you truly are.

GEORGINA I want people to see who I am.

ANDY Well then, what’s holding you back?

GEORGINA People trying to stop me.

ANDY Push them away.

Silence.

GEORGINA Okay.

SCENE 5 The flat. LEWIS is sorting out his camera and reading a book. SHAILENE is working out.

SHAILENE 23 – 24 – 25 – 26 – 27 – 28 – 29 – 30. Oof! LEWIS Hard work?

SHAILENE Easier than it used to be. 31 – 32.

LEWIS I didn’t get much out of Georgina.

SHAILENE No? Oh, I’m so surprised!

LEWIS Shut up.

SHAILENE Did y’ really think Georgina would just tell ya about her and Nige?

LEWIS It was worth a shot.

SHAILENE Yeah, if it was planned out better. Someone like her isn’t going to take that well. She’s going to feel pressured.

LEWIS Pressured?

SHAILENE Yeah.

LEWIS I wasn’t though.

SHAILENE She doesn’t know that.

LEWIS She would have said.

SHAILENE Oh really? A person who struggles with communicating her feelings is just going to tell you?

LEWIS She’s blunt.

SHAILENE Maybe at times.

LEWIS I’m not being made out to be the devil here.

SHAILENE Y’ ain’t goin’ to be made out to be some kind of saint.

LEWIS Fuck off!

Silence.

SHAILENE Say that again.

38

SCENE 6 The Bluebridge auditorium. It is a large room, filled with sculptures and paintings.

It’s a sold out event. LEWIS has set up his camera. NIGE is in the corner. ANDY approaches LEWIS. ANDY Hey, things going well?

LEWIS Yeah, just about ready.

ANDY We start in about three minutes, man.

LEWIS Cool.

ANDY goes to set up more.

(to himself) It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.

GEORGINA walks in. LEWIS runs to her.

You made it.

GEORGINA Well I think I did.

LEWIS I’m glad you’re here. Andy is just over there. Let him know you’re going on.

GEORGINA Okay. (pause) I have something for you.

She gives LEWIS a bowl wrapped in tinfoil. He stares.

Mac and cheese.

39

Hayden Robinson

LEWIS What?

SHAILENE Say it again.

LEWIS Fuck off.

SHAILENE Yes. LEWIS Oh, come on babe.

SHAILENE stands up and starts packing things away in a bag.

What? Shailene, what the hell are you doin’?

SHAILENE I ain’t havin’ this anymore.

LEWIS Having what?

SHAILENE This fuckery of feelings.

LEWIS Take it easy!

SHAILENE No! No, I won’t! I’m out of here!

LEWIS Shailene!

SHAILENE It’s one thing that you were depressed, unhappy, all that. But you are reaching a level I can’t comprehend.

LEWIS What level?

SHAILENE Bastard level.

LEWIS Don’t be stupid! I’m getting better!

SHAILENE Great! Get better without puttin’ it on me!

LEWIS Shailene, please.

She doesn’t listen. LEWIS cries.

You can’t. You can’t do this.

SHAILENE Can’t I? LEWIS I love you.

SHAILENE doesn’t reply.

LEWIS So y’ just going to leave me, like my ex did?

SHAILENE Correction: I’m leaving you like I want to.

She finishes packing and storms out.

LEWIS Y’ never did give a shit…fffffuuuuucccccckkkkkk!

LEWIS breaks down. He sobs. Silence. The phone rings. He picks it up.

Hello? Georgina? Oh, nothin’. No really. It’s – it’s nice to hear your voice.

What? The talent show? Have you? You are?

Hayden Robinson

LEWIS Ah! You said you make a good ‘un.

GEORGINA Yeah. (pause) I can do it. I can do it.

GEORGINA walks over to ANDY, just as NIGE is walking over to LEWIS. NIGE I told her not to come.

LEWIS Georgina?

NIGE Yeah.

LEWIS Well, you can’t have everything, can you.

NIGE She’s not going on.

LEWIS Who’s gonna to stop her? You? Do y’ think that’s a good idea? (pause) Why did you even invite her to your shows before if you don’t even like her at all?

Didn’t it occur to y’ that she may want to do it herself?

NIGE I needed to open my audience to the youngsters. Educate them.

LEWIS Or brainwash them. (pause) She’s here and she’s performin’, so shut up.

NIGE You’re my mate. Help me out, will you? She’s got you twisted. She isn’t worth the trouble. Get her out of here! I’m begging you!

LEWIS glares at NIGE. LEWIS You know, I was interested in you once. Now I think ya just pathetic. (pause) Good luck up there.

NIGE glares back, then walks away. ANDY approaches LEWIS. ANDY You ready, man?

LEWIS (stands behind his camera) Ready.

ANDY gets up on stage. LEWIS starts filming.

ANDY Here we are! Welcome everyone to tonight’s performance! I’m your host Andy and what a show we’ve got. Tonight, we have a special treat for you – up first are two separate acts, and both of them are poets. Please let me introduce the first act – a wonderful local poet who has been around for some time and always gives us fantastic material. Please give it up for Nige Jolsen!

A few cheers. NIGE gets on stage.

NIGE Hey there! I’m about to blow your minds and give you poetry to make you think! To make you look past your blind lives and see into the light!

A few mumbles. He recites.

We live in a world

Where the mighty are silenced

Where colours are mixed

The disabled are enabled

We live in ‘love all’

When we are made

To be slaves to the weak

Making themselves out

To be meek, so let’s free

Ourselves from our chains

And gain the advantage

To take control of this,

The black hole that allows

Pride to stride against

The straight line and--The microphone cuts off. Several boos can be heard. NIGE screams. ANDY gets him off the stage.

ANDY Sorry about that. Clearly his material has diminished. We best move on to the next poet. This is a new poet who is having her first reading tonight. I’m

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Hayden Robinson

guessing that she’s a little nervous, so please make her feel welcome. Give it up for our newest act, Georgina Moretz!

A few cheers. GEORGINA slowly walks on stage.

GEORGINA Erm – hello. My name is Georgina. I’m reading some poems for you tonight. Erm – I – I – I’m sorry, I’m feeling a bit fuzzy. It’s a bit – a bit much to take in. Performing in front of so many people in this way.

SHAILENE walks in. She cheers for GEORGINA. A few more can be heard.

GEORGINA smiles. LEWIS walks over to SHAILENE. LEWIS Shailene? What are you doin’ here?

SHAILENE Watchin’ Georgina. She’s doin’ well.

He smiles and returns to his camera.

GEORGINA So this is one of the first ones I wrote. It’s called – erm – ‘Lazy’.

She recites.

I like being lazy.

Some days when I

Wake up, I just

Want to sit in

My pyjamas and

Watch a season of

A drag race with RuPaul

Until night time comes;

I will only move

When I make a plate

Of ice cream sandwiches

Made with dark chocolate

Cookies, topped with cream

Along with chai tea

As a reblog a tweet

About a beach.

Life tires me out –

Who said being lazy is bad?

Applause.

GEORGINA Thank you. I’m feeling better now. You guys are a great audience.

Really supportive. Thank you. (pause) My next poem is about holding onto anger.

I think a lot of people do this and it’s not always a good thing. It’s called ‘grip hook’.

She recites.

Anger

A poison Few

Can survive Because

It seeps Into

The core

The heart

The mind

Of its victims Through Tension

Hayden Robinson

Thoughts Memories

Of unfair Hypocrisy

But its enemy

Is releasing

Its grip

To kill bitterness

In yourself

In others

So that

The sun shall Shine

Once more.

Applause. NIGE throws something at the stage.

NIGE You slut! Fucking mong!

LEWIS Nige, leave her alone!

GEORGINA Erm – I have one more poem. I won’t keep you much longer. It’s not that long. It’s called ‘Laserbeams’.

He throws another thing at the stage. LEWIS attacks NIGEL. A fight. SHAILENE and ANDY run and chase them around to try and break them up. This carries on as GEORGINA recites. Halfway through, she starts dancing at the same time.

GEORGINA Some count their blessings in miracles

Others count theirs in prayers every night

Before they drift off into impossible dreams;

As for me, I count mine in sunbeams

Every morning as I look out my window,

The sky slowly moves into innocent blue,

I remind myself too that I am like that sky,

Beginning anew every single morning,

The glorious dancer behind the gloomy singer,

Spinning and kicking with clouds and

The spotlight gold gleaming;

The only shade upon me is on my forearm,

The words that read ‘my story isn’t over’

And I realise now that is true and

It always will be when I decide

Not to hide away from who I am

Not to shy away from what I want

Not to cry all day if failure comes;

The semicolon mixed with those words

Remind me that my journey continues

And, if I have my will, it will never end

Not for me or for anyone else that

Has stood in the murky night and

Crouched in fright from lies ahead;

Instead of praying, I act

For I am my own miracle

That will make impossible dreams

Become a reality, through only

Sunbeams and semicolon tattoos.

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GEORGINA smiles and bows. She stares at the people still fighting.

They do.

STOP IT, YOU BASTARDS! END OF ACT TWO THE END

Hayden Robinson

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g n i d a e r r o f ! t s r k o n p p a u h s T r u o y d n a

Love Larry the cat and the team x